DEMAND RESPECT. DON’T LET THE MEDIA FUCK YOU.

Four years ago I uploaded a video to YouTube. I was nervous. It was the first time I’d spoken so openly about being transgender and I knew I might later regret it if I decided to go stealth again. I wasn’t so sure of myself back then. I had a breakdown, once, after something horrific happened to me for no other reason than me being trans. Funnily enough it wasn’t the event that made me nearly lose all hope – not to mention my mind – but rather the fear of becoming a national talking point. I’m rather bold and outgoing. I don’t know if Lucy Meadows was introvert or extravert but the sort of things that can happen to people like us terrified me.

Photo: Ryan Harding

In the video I talk about guys, which, before I became an equality campaigner, was my specialist subject. I’ve been with lots of guys. When I first transitioned (from male to female) I let many of those guys treat me badly. Without wanting to generalize about half the population, let’s say that some men treat some girls rather poorly. Trans girls, in my experience, are often treated the worst. These guys will fuck you, sure, but don’t expect an invitation to dinner: he doesn’t want to be seen out with someone like you. I believed that for a few years and was convinced I’d spend the rest of my life alone. Dating is hard anyway but harder when you’re trans. I’m hot stuff and was single for four years so, obviously, that’s my only explanation. And anyway who wouldn’t want to date a narcissist?

If I’d really thought so highly of myself, though, I wouldn’t have let men disrespect me. Regardless of gender I suspect many people feel this way. Would you let people treat you the way they did when you were 17? You get burnt and you get smart. You demand respect if you have healthy self-esteem. Or maybe you don’t and you get sucked into toxic relationships based on inequality, shame and fear. Many trans people suffer low self-esteem from living in a culture that constantly tells us we are less than everyone else, less attractive, less serious, less important – and less entitled to the privacy, decency and basic human dignity afforded everyone else. Many trans people suffer toxic relationships.

I started demanding respect. Are you a hunk? Great, let’s get it on! Do you respect me? No? See you later! It’s funny but, after years of letting people treat me like shit, the moment I started demanding respect, I got it. I told guys that if they wanted to see me, they could take me for dinner. If they wanted to get me drunk, they could take me for cocktails. I only had time for a man who was proud to walk out with me hand in hand and now I spend most of my time holding hands with such a man. We’ve just bought a house together.

It’s been an interesting week for me and it’s got me thinking. My relationship with the media is like my relationship with men. All I could see at first was the shitty way people like me should expect to be treated. I thought, ah well, that’s the way of things. I put up with it. I let myself be inferior because I let others see me as inferior. We were in it together, we’d made a pact. There were rules I had to obey, not to be seen or heard or else risk abuse, violence or ridicule. “If you ever see me in town, you won’t say hello to me or anything will you?” – that’s what I used to get asked by the men who wanted to be intimate with me. “Oh no of course not,” I’d reply, ‘I wouldn’t embarrass you like that!”

We let people take advantage of us when we are low, don’t we? We let men in late at night to penetrate us without kissing us, because we’re lonely. We let documentary makers penetrate our privacy because we want to make ourselves real. We put makeup on to meet other people’s beauty standards and show our before-and-after photos to make them like us more. It’s what they want from us and, at first, we don’t know any other way to be.

Well how about we tell them to fuck off? Over the past two years I’ve turned down several offers to appear in the media because the people making them didn’t respect me. I worried, though. What if I didn’t get another chance to get my message out? It was no different to my former fear that I would be alone for the rest of my life. I held out for respect and both times I was right.

Trans people, like many types of people, are starting to demand respect from the media. Katherine O’Donnell is night editor of the Times in Scotland. Juliet Jacques blogs for the Guardian. Bethany Black is a standup comedian. You might laugh at Bethany’s jokes but you don’t laugh at these women (and others like them) because they haven’t compromised. Don’t compromise. As Juliet wrote for the New Statesman recently, on the way the media treats trans people, compromise is neither desirable nor possible.

Stop feeding the lions. Stop jerking the jerks. They can all sort themselves out.

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Cruelty to trans children must stop. FULL STOP.

In February this year I was asked to speak at an organisation I greatly admire, the NSPCC – the first time, I understand, that trans issues have been officially discussed there. I really hope the NSPCC can do more work to support trans kids in future. I promised to make my notes available online… find them below the clip of me and child trans campaigner Livvy James,

• When I was asked to come and talk to the NSPCC my initial reaction was: Great! I’m so pleased they’re looking at transgender issues – but what do I know about vulnerable children?

• I quickly realized, though, that I know all too much about vulnerable children. I was one.

• I’m not sure how much you know about me but I’m a campaigner, writer and broadcaster – and much of what I do focuses on promoting the idea that trans people deserve the same human rights as everyone else. So do trans children.

• So what are the issues affecting children who express their gender non-conventionally?

• Trans kids can expect bullying, isolation, rejection by family, teachers and schools, rejection of their identity, lack of role models, and violence.

• Here’s an extract of a piece I wrote for the Guardian in 2011:

“Growing up, the only time I’d ever seen trans people on TV were those ‘brave’, depressing ones, hanging around hospitals waiting for ‘sex change’ surgery. They may as well have been aliens. The ex-mining town where I grew up in Nottinghamshire was insular to say the least. Changing gender was something that simply didn’t happen to the people on my council estate. But I knew from four that I was ‘different’, and other people seemed to notice too. I was routinely bullied, often quite violently, for years.”

• This time last year I appeared on BBC Breakfast with a trans girl called Livvy. After being bullied at school she began a campaign to end bigoted reporting of trans issues in the press. (Clearly this 10-year-old was smart enough to make the connection between bullying at school and bullying in the press.)

• I was both pleased and sad to meet Livvy. I wish I’d had the support that she enjoys when I was a child. I got quite the opposite – and was bullied by my violent father for “acting like a poof”.

• It’s important to understand the culture into which trans children are born. Trans people are ridiculed in the press daily and we are frequent punch lines in comedy across a range of genres. Julie Buchill’s Observer piece, in which she accused trans people of being “bed-wetters in bad wigs” was just one example.

• If serious newspapers feel it’s OK to attack trans people because of the way they look – relying on lazy, inaccurate stereotypes – why would our playgrounds be any better?

• Parents of trans children (whether they know they are yet) will read newspapers (like mine did) and this will inform their view on what transgender means.

• Does anyone here know someone who is transgender? If not, where do you get your information about trans people?

• Most people get most of their information about trans people from the media. As the media promotes bullying of trans people, you can see what trans kids are up against.

• Ironically, though, some of the most sympathetic stories about trans people are about trans children.

Livvy James

• People are often more willing to accept a gender identity that doesn’t match up with a person’s birth sex providing puberty hasn’t occurred and there are no secondary sexual characteristics to indicate birth sex (put simply: people are more likely to accept someone who was born with female genitals as male if he doesn’t have visible breasts.)

• Most trans people, though not all, will tell you they knew who they were, inside, from a very young age. I did. The majority are “non-apparent” – and were not able to come out and be themselves when they were young.

• Most trans people were also too scared to tell anyone; many older trans people even felt so pressured into conforming that they got traditionally gendered jobs and began families. Many trans women, i.e. those who feel female but were born male, enter the army in an attempt to “man up”. This is frequently unsuccessful. (“Flight into Hypermasculinity” (1988) by Capt. George R Brown documents this.)

• In this way, we might compare being trans to being gay – with a ‘coming out’ (although it is important to note that transgender is not an ‘extreme form’ of being gay and that trans people may turn out to be straight, gay, lesbian or bisexual the same as anyone else. This is about identity, not sexuality).

• So if it’s not about sexuality (and clearly in young children that can’t be the motive) why are people trans?

• GIRES have a great website that explores the theories behind why people are trans, and I’d like to read something from a booklet they produced for the Department of Health.

“Typically, we are divided by our physical sex appearance into ‘male’ and ‘female’. We tend to think that all human beings fall into two distinct categories: boys who become men, and girls who become women… In most cases, our sex appearance, gender identity and gender role are in agreement with each other. However, a few individuals find that the way they look on the outside doesn’t fit how they feel inside.”

• This doesn’t mean that all boys who play with dolls are trans. But some might be. There are various theories as to why people might feel they are in the wrong body – social, mental, hormonal and physical – ultimately none of this matters.

• The important thing is that trans children exist. It doesn’t matter why they exist. They deserve the same human rights as everyone else – they must be protected from violence and abuse. They are likely to be vulnerable and need protection. Oftentimes from their families.

• I know that children’s charities have, in the past, held back from explicitly supporting trans children. There may be various reasons for this, not least the pernicious idea that trans is somehow taboo or wrong.

• Many people who deal with trans children – including teachers, adoption agencies or GPs – won’t understand trans issues. Some may be openly hostile.

• It doesn’t matter, though, if people who deal with children don’t ‘agree’ with transgender – the law now recognizes gender reassignment as a protected characteristic under the Equalities Act 2010. Transgender is something people just have to learn to deal with.

• People who may wish to help trans children may also feel scared and that they don’t understand the issues properly. Or that it is about sex. It’s not. And the only thing to understand is that this is a human rights issue and a child protection issue – protecting these children from bullying and social rejection.

• There is research in the States that shows teachers in schools are scared of dealing sensitively and positively with trans children because they fear being seen as ‘too progressive’, or ‘too left-wing’ and who also fear the response, in particular, of parents of other children, and indirectly, through them, the media.

• Mermaids, a wonderful charity that offers support to families with trans children, has really struggled to find funding – mainly due to that unhelpful idea that trans is taboo.

• I cannot praise them enough for the good work that they do, such as brining together families for weekend retreats where parents can talk to other parents going through the same difficulties and the children can play safely. Mermaids also offers guidance to schools who have a pupil who is trans – from breaking the news to the other pupils, to solving problems like what changing rooms the child will use.

• I’d like to finish by asking people to check out Mermaids and also by reading a few case studies of trans children. Thank you.

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Transgender children: 3 British case studies

I was recently asked to speak at the NSPCC about the issues trans children face. As part of my talk I read out three case studies, published below. All names have been changed.

(IMAGE: Young trans campaigner Livvy james)

Naomi

Despite presenting as a girl and being known as a girl by most of the children in her class, 6-year-old Naomi, who attended a small church school in a village in East Anglia, was constantly referred to as a boy by her class teacher and her headteacher. The class teacher said she had to be called her boy’s name because that was on her official documentation.

Even when her parents got her name changed by deed poll the teacher continued to do this. The head consistently failed to attend meetings with her parents and failed to return correspondence. All the children in her class were OK with her expressing real gender but a few boys aged 10 and 11 in another class started to bully her in the playground. When her parents complained, the school did nothing about it. After seeing her daughter become more and more depressed her mother reluctantly took her out of school, she has not been to school for 3 years.

Aysha

Aysha, aged 5 was completely open about wanting to be a girl. She would plait the hair of the girl in front of her while she sat on the carpet like all the other girls, she would always head for the dressing up box first thing during the day and emerge a princess or a fairy. This despite being sent to school in the most masculine clothes her parents could find. An only child, her parents did not want her to be a girl and applied a large amount of pressure to make her masculine.

A couple of times she was sent to her uncle in south Asia who would let her wear a sari and then beat her very hard with a stick. She would then be kept there until the bruises had gone before coming back to the UK. Social services did not want to know about this. Another parent complained to the head that she didn’t want her daughter to be touched by Aysha, with regard to the hair plaiting. The head told the class teacher to ‘stop him’ from doing this. The class teacher made all the children stop doing this, and a few of the other girls then got told off for doing so. Some parents complained about this happening and the head told the teacher only to enforce this on Aysha. She refused to do this and shortly after the end of that school year resigned in protest at being effectively told by school management to bully Aysha.

Zara

Zara was 10 when she decided she could no longer be a boy. Attending a primary school in South-West London she already had long hair, wore androgynous clothes and most of her friends were girls. Her parents took a lot of time to find out about being trans and supported her fully, discussing things in depth with the head and class teacher. Her transition was organized for a weekend and she left school early one Friday afternoon and the class teacher and head told the class that on Monday morning she was going to come back as the girl she had always known she was. They only told her class and the parents of children in the class. She came back on Monday and the only thing about her that changed was her name. She had very few problems; whenever a child, or parent of another child, tried to bully her, her classmates or staff would support her 100%. She stayed in school, did well in her SATs and continued to do very well at secondary school.

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THE GREATEST COWARD

It might be when Mark’s gone to sleep, or perhaps I’m home alone, but I only really feel safe when I’ve tidied the house, washed and dried the dishes, popped the laundry on, locked both locks on the front door and closed the kitchen one, with me inside. I’ll have the big light on and sit with my back to the wall, knees bent and the washing machine to my left. I like watching it go round, and I think the people who make washing machine’s understand this because they always come with a window, don’t they? So I can’t be alone, there must be more people like me. I like it because it’s the only window in the house that no one can look at you through.

My favourite part is when the clothes have been through the first cycle, where they get all soapy, and it fills with clean water and the dirt comes out. How simple it all is! No knuckles rubbed raw like our grandmothers’ – no heaving buckets of water from the fire. You just sit there and the bad things are washed away behind that solid glass screen. It never leaks. You wait for your clean clothes and the potential they represent: another day they can be worn.

People often tell me I’m intimidating but that makes me laugh. I don’t know why my heart beats faster, sometimes, and that dark unease washes through me like a cold wave of sexual pleasure. I don’t know why I jump at the doorbell or why my eyes fill with tears when the phone rings and I don’t know who’s calling; why I panic and worry and obsess over the smallest of problems. When I think of all the things I have dealt with – and there’s been so much – I tell myself, you know, you really should be stronger. The truth though is that I just don’t think I can cope with any more devastation… yet it lurks around every corner. I listen out for it, sometimes, the sound of guns, or sirens, maybe, shouting and screaming, buildings crashing down. Because there’ll be noise, won’t there, when the world crumbles? When the washing machine’s on, though, all I hear is that whirr, that sea-like slosh.

Sometimes I’m inside the washing machine, tossed around as floral scented water fills my lungs.

I always worry when I’m in public. Perhaps someone will shout, “You’re not a woman, who do you think you are?” like they have before. It hasn’t happened for a while but the fear that it will again, that I’ll be humiliated, do you suppose that ever goes away? So I feel safer at home, yes – but even then there are threats. What if the gas leaks and I have to go outside? What if there’s a fire and nowhere to return? What if people knock on the door, what if they want something and say, Quick, come on, come outside because it’s not safe here anymore? Maybe they’ll come and do that, one day, throw my mattress out the window and me after it. It’s not safe to put your trust in houses. They get blown down.

But if someone knocks on the door while the washing machine’s on you can say, “Oh, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m just waiting for the washing machine to finish before I go to bed,” and everything’s all right then. You can’t leave before the cycle ends, can you? You’re not a man or a woman either: you’re just someone who’s waiting for the washing machine to finish. You’re a legitimate person. It’s allowed.

People don’t usually knock on the door late at night, on Sunday, while you’re sitting on the kitchen floor watching the washing machine go round. Sometimes, when I see the water drain, I reach up to a button at the top that says “Extra rinse” and a light comes on to let me know I’ve pressed it properly. They’re good, those little lights.

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WHEEL OF FORTUNE

I remember the day I was sent to prison, waiting in front of Nottingham Crown Court, which faces the Broadmarsh Bus Centre. Smoking cigarettes. It’s funny, but even as I type this, my heart starts racing. I was terrified. Borstal was not something I thought I could cope with. It was an unknown and hostile land I might be sent to, alone. A feminine boy, as I appeared to the world at the time, the last sort of person you’d expect to survive prison unharmed.

I don’t think I will ever look at buses with such longing as I did that day, except, perhaps, if my mum was on one and I knew that I would never see her again. I wanted to cross the road, join a queue and step inside. A bus. Any bus. No one would stop me. No one was guarding me. I could have sat down with all those other people and let the bus roll me further away from the courthouse; I could have got off somewhere, where no one would expect me to be; I could have bought a sandwich and sat on a bench and planned which bus I would catch next. I could have caught buses all day, had I chosen to, and landed far, far away. I looked at those buses with fresh, fearful, tear-filled eyes and saw nothing but freedom.

I was sent to prison for two years that day, just weeks after my 18th birthday. 18, for me, was a cell. I’ll never get that back. It’s why I’m not ashamed to talk about my past. I paid for my crime. I didn’t catch the bus.

That was 7 years ago.

There’ve been ups and downs since then, lows I cannot describe, times I’ve wanted to end my story, but didn’t. So how, then, can I look back on 2012 with anything but pure gratitude? This year has been the best of my life. No doubt. It has been an emotional rollercoaster, if you’ll excuse the cliché, and filled with experiences that have both shocked and intrigued with their sheer intensity.

Things have shifted… my face has shape-shifted. I’ve been moved, I’ve moved, I’ve travelled. I’ve pulled back from Trans Media Watch, to focus on the excitement of Trans Media Action and META; I’ve prioritised paid work, to survive. I haven’t, sadly, been able to respond to everyone who has contacted me. I haven’t had time.

I’ve been tired and busy and guilty and disappointed, and disappointing, and angry and afraid, and betrayed, and hopeless – and I’ve cried, all the time; I’ve said hello to all those negative feelings that have visited me, again, as they do every year, and yet I have never been more fulfilled. I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy.

And I tell you this: it has made me even more determined to make things better for people like me, and by that I mean anyone in a dark place who hopes for life improved. Now I’ve tasted the prize, I want us all to win. It’s good stuff, people. It’s worth hanging on for. It gets better.

Work. Play. Persevere. Chase your dreams. Never, ever give up. You’ll be dead, one day. Don’t get there without experiencing a year like I have. 2012 may not have been the time for you, and maybe next year won’t be so fun for me, but hold on tight, folks. The big wheel keeps on turning.

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I’M IN LOVE

Today is Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDoR) – the time when trans people remember our murdered brothers and sisters, and slain siblings of every gender expression. It’s a sombre occasion and, yesterday, I lit a candle at a ceremony in Essex, organised by the fantastic Dan Bunker at Outhouse East. On the train back to London, I had a little cry.

For the past few days, I’ve been meaning to upload some of the fantastic pics my friend and colleague Rachel Saunders took of me at the weekend. Oh no, I thought, waking up today, I can’t possibly blog about something like that on TDoR. Can I?

Though you probably won’t see much written about TDoR in the mainstream press, there are many great blogs detailing why this day matters. I suggest you read them, starting with Jane Fae’s document of the tsunami of violence and viciousness. This information must be shared. But I have something else to tell you.

Don’t you EVER feel ashamed of loving your life. You cannot change the fact that someone laughed at you as you walked down the street today… you can’t undo the harsh words of a cruel family member and you can’t be unborn and made afresh in the body you’ve craved since childhood. You can do something nice for yourself today, though. When I spoke about this in a recent video blog, I realised that this simple piece of advice is probably the most powerful tool I’ve found to combat fear and depression.

During the TDoR event at Outhouse East, guests saw a new photographic exhibition that celebrates trans people. It’s called Living My Life, and we must never forget how important our lives are – and not just those that are tragically taken.

Yesterday I lit a candle; today I will raise a glass. I’m meeting a good friend at a party and I’m going because of TDoR, not in spite of it. This, trans people, is my message: love your life. We owe it to those of us who can’t.

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DOCUMENTARY: Indonesia’s Transsexual Muslims

Love this. Impressive documentary from VICE, about Indonesian trans people, or Warias, as they are known. The narrator uses “transvestite” and “transsexual” interchangeably and I’d be interested to know if this is down to culturally-specific notions of gender identity or just shit translation. That aside, it’s a sympathetic piece and there’s a real sense of wanting to learn about the women’s lives. Keep an eye out, though, for the presenter’s well-meaning but cringe-inducingly patronising comment, to a trans woman: “You do your eye makeup better than I do!”

Honey, a lot of people do.

 

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My Transsexual Summer's Lewis speaks out

Reblogged from metamagonline:

Lewis Hancox won over the nation's hearts following his appearance on Channel 4's My Transsexual Summer, with stars such as Stephen Fry contributing to his fund for chest surgery. But he also faced severe criticism from sections of the trans community, who accused him of setting a bad example by raising the money himself. Lewis tells us why he made his decision - and the pressures of representing a whole community on national television...

Read more… 15 more words

I don't usually do reblogs, but I have fond memories of making this short film for issue 1 of META and there are two important messages that Lewis makes. Firstly, one person can't represent everyone. Secondly, one person may not even be able to represent themselves as well as they'd like, as documentary makers have their own stories to tell. Bear it in mind, trans people.

WE WILL NEVER LOOK BACK

There is only one cure for the Post Ibiza Blues (PIB) and that, of course, is to return to Ibiza.

 If this is not immediately possible, withdrawal symptoms may be treated with music therapy. PIB sufferers may find comfort through songs that remind them of their Iberian adventure, though it should be noted that, in some cases, this can actually increase PIB.

I’ve been back in Britain for less than 24 hours and I’m experiencing extreme PIB. Ibiza is a raver’s pilgrimage but my trip, booked at extremely short notice, also symbolises my new-found freedom. Thank you to my fabulous new friends for inviting me. Thank you, Boy George, for giving me dance floor fever following a hot, sweaty night at Amnesia. And thank God for electronic dance music.

I tried Googling “Never look back” to find one of the songs stuck in my head. This led me to Avicii’s new single, Silhouettes. I was surprised to see the promo clip features a trans person, but I was even more surprised at how this is handled. Rather than mocking the trans character, the film affirms her experience and shows her as fulfilled (and loved) following surgery. When did you last see that in a music video?

Avicii is a mainstream, Grammy-nominated star, who counts Madonna and David Guetta among his friends. Last year he ranked No. 6 on the Top 100 DJs list by DJ Magazine. He plays to thousands, but he wants his fans to do more than just throw shapes. Change, he says. Be yourself. Be happy. Clubbers, like the rest of the population, come in every variety. Messages like this are what made me fall in love with dance music in the first place. It’s a top tune and a top, PIB-relieving video. Top man, Avicii.

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GOOD LIFE

I’ve never been happier. I think I know why.

Feeling happy and free with my lovely cousin.

Sitting on the train to Nottingham last Saturday, barefaced and relaxed, I couldn’t help remembering how stressful I once found that same journey. I’d never done it without makeup before. If you are visibly transgender, being in public is a constant source of danger, paranoia and conflict. Humiliation, verbal and sexual abuse are common and physical violence is a real threat. Trans people are also more likely to be murdered. “Passing” in one’s preferred gender is about more than respect: it’s a safety concern. You can see why so many of us are obsessed with it.

My cisgender (i.e. non-trans) friends sometimes act surprised when I tell them this. If I’m trying to explain the situation to a man, I’ll ask him if he fancies walking down the road with my handbag on his arm. Wearing lipstick. Most realise that this will probably illicit sniggering, staring and, of course, increased threat of violence. Trust me. Other people really seem to care what colours we put on our faces, and the bits of cloth we cover our bodies with. If your choices don’t meet other people’s expectations, they soon let you know.

Over the years I have spent thousands of pounds, hours and tears in the quest to look female. Hair and nail appointments. Fake tan and makeup. Cosmetics. Epilation. Clothing. Everyone likes to look good though – right? True, but I spent that money – and continue to spend it – mainly to rid myself of the constant, nagging feeling of unease in public. To stop people staring. To stop them grinning. To stop them abusing me on buses, in shops… on the streets. I spent all that money, in fact, to feel how cisgender people feel.

Last Friday I popped to my doctors for a routine health check. I didn’t bother wearing makeup. After I’d seen the nurse, I decided to visit my nearest high street to check out the new hair salon. I couldn’t get a same-day appointment, so I popped to my usual salon in Stratford instead. Stratford is incredibly busy at the moment due to the Olympics. I went anyway, got my hair done, and stopped off to buy groceries on the way home. There was a time when I wouldn’t take the bin bags out without makeup on, but I felt completely comfortable all day. The sun has chased the clouds away, in the good life.

Happy… through pain ripens joy

This is what £8,000, and pain, and slicing, can buy you. A feeling of invincibility. It’s given me a confidence boost, yes, but it has also, without doubt, made me look better – “better” meaning “more feminine” in this instance. Peace. I can get on the train and smile at the woman opposite me when her child starts singing. It’s a wonderful feeling, but I’m disappointed that I had to work so hard to experience it. It’s called passing privilege – or cisgender privilege, for those who take it for granted. The thing about passing privilege though, the thing that separates it from cisgender privilege, is that it is conditional. If for whatever reason I stop conforming to a particular look, my harmony would disappear. Perhaps I’d care less, a second time round. Who knows? Still, it’s a scary thought.

I’m also subject to the male gaze more often, these days, which makes me paranoid. Unless of course it’s someone hot – then it just makes me blush.

We can’t change society overnight. Nor can we change ourselves so soon and, frankly, why the fuck should we? If we are clever, we do both. We must remove the stigma of being trans. We must end the pressure to conform to other people’s ideas about how we should look. It’s hard to do this while also trying to fit in and live peacefully. But, so long as people still make life miserable for those who are visibly trans, pressure to conform poisons our capacity for creativity, expression and love. It is all-consuming. There are things we could, and should, be thinking about other than the way we look. I am able to think this, now.

I’ve never been happier. I’m sad to think why.

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